


Beer and Broken Hands

by cofax



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-12
Updated: 2010-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:18:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes a knock on the head.  Oddly, not much changes.  Written for Barkley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beer and Broken Hands

He is on his back in a snowbank; that is clear. It's dark. And he hurts. "Ow."

"Son of a bitch!" A voice behind him, angry and frustrated.

There's a pause and some crunching noises, like a buffalo stomping on styrofoam cups. He's not entirely sure why that image comes to him, but it's funny, so he's smiling when the light hits his eyes. "Shit, ow!" He slaps a hand over his face--a glove, actually, one of those fingerless rag-wool gloves old men in hardware stores wear. "Can you point that somewhere else?"

"Oh, sorry." The light goes away.

There's a long pause. He keeps his hand over his eyes, trying not to think because he's pretty sure thinking isn't going to come up with anything and that would be... bad. So instead he focuses on the smell of the glove and the way there's some snow melting down his neck. He doesn't have a hat on and his ears are getting cold.

"So, ah, Dean," says the other voice hesitantly. "You okay? She hit you pretty hard."

He drops the hand over his eyes and scratches his jaw. Needs a shave. He's got a pain behind his eyes that feels like it's growing, looming, looming like a big whole Looming Thing. "Headache," he says, and drags his gaze up the shadowed legs of the guy standing next to him, flashlight swinging in his hand. He can't see his face, the way the light moves, but this guy's pretty big. Then the words get through. "She?"

"Technically? Not sure," says the other guy, and extends a hand to pull him up. "What gender is the reanimated corpse of an elementary school teacher inhabited by an ancient Sumerian demon thing?"

He's pulled easily to his feet, and allows the other guy to brace him for a moment before letting go of his hand. "Dunno," he answers, not sure whether that was a question anyway. A reanimated what? He stares around a bit: they're standing at the edge of a graveyard, surrounded by a low fence on one side and the snow-covered lumps of markers on the other. "So, um," he says cautiously, shooting a glance at his companion. "We good?"

"Yeah,"says the other guy, switching the flashlight into the other hand. "I think I sprained my hand again, though. Mr. Lewis--you know, the bank manager--put up a fight."

"Right." He looks around again. There's something that's supposed to be here, he's pretty sure. He swallows, realizes he's really thirsty. That provides an answer. "I need a beer."

They start walking along the fence line towards some streetlights a hundred yards away. "There's that bar around the corner, looked like they had food, too..."

Excellent. "Burger _and_ a beer."

The tall guy laughs. "Jesus, Dean, she really clocked you, didn't she?"

"Did not." He's just got a headache. There's a gun tucked into the back of his jeans, but he's pretty sure that's supposed to be there. Just like he's supposed to be walking toward _that_ car and talking with _this_ guy.

He can figure everything else out, later.

Like why this guy keeps calling him Dean.

 

*

 

The beer goes down nicely. When the other guy goes to the bar to pick up their food, he (okay, fine, _Dean_) tries to pull out his wallet, but there's no time and he slumps back into the booth in annoyance. Not too annoyed, though: the burgers are char-grilled, the fries crispy and hot.

"Good burgers," he finally says after wolfing down half of his, slathered in ketchup and mustard. When he looks up, the other guy's just staring at him, a dimple popping in and out of view. "What?"

"You're so fucked up, Dean." But it's said with a smile, a grin of recognition that Dean can't help but respond to.

"What's your excuse? You got _pesto_ on your burger! That's so _yuppie_!" Which sounds right, yeah, that's good, but fuck it he still doesn't know the guy's name, and it's starting to get kinda weird.

The other guy takes a big swig of beer, steals three of Dean's fries, and then sags back into his seat. He's still smiling, but his forehead is wrinkled in what looks like concern. "The fuck happened out there, Dean?"

"Nothing." Dean finishes his beer and lifts the empty glass at the waitress. She's cute: short dark hair and a nice ass. When he looks back at whats-his-name, the smile's gone, the eyes narrowed with thought. Shit. "I'm fine, all right?"

"I'm fine, what?"

Dean stares. "What?"

That dark look is getting all Darwin and evolving into a glare, sharp with suspicion. "I'm fine--" The guy repeats, enunciating clearly. The blank spot at the end of the phrase is obvious in the way he turns his palm out to Dean.

Dean's got nothing. Dying fish come to mind, his finger hooked through a slimy gill and a hand on his shoulder explaining something and all he can remember is the way the fish's mouth gaped again and again. "Ahh..." Thank god, his beer arrives but the waitress doesn't stick around and while Dean watches her backside retreat in mournful supplication, the other guy's swiped his beer. "Hey!"

"No beer unless you talk, Dean." Suspicion, yeah, but--so far--no anger. What's making him shaky is the hole in his head, not the over-tall dark-haired guy across the table, who's simultaneously a complete stranger and the only source of comfort in the bar. (Other than the beer.)

"Fine," Dean snaps. "I kinda." This is embarrassing. But there's no getting his beer, or even finishing his dinner, he suspects. "I kinda can't remember anything," he mumbles, looking desperately away. Hey, there's the waitress--he gives her a little wave and a grin.

"You can't remember _anything_?" The other guy is susprised, but not as much as he should be, Dean's pretty sure. "Not your name, not my name, not why we're here?"

"I'm Dean." He knows that much. He thinks.

The other guy snorts and pushes Dean's beer back across the table, then slumps back again. "Son of a bitch. You really are."


End file.
